Wildest Dreams
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Tag to "Lifesigns". Denara is particular about the way she wants to be remembered.


Wildest Dreams

By Regina Peters

Based on: _Star Trek: Voyager_

Copyright: Paramount

"_Say you'll remember me  
standing in a nice dress,  
staring at the sunset, babe;  
red lips and rosy cheeks.  
Say you'll see me again  
even if it's just in your  
wildest dreams … "_

Taylor Swift, "Wildest Dreams"

He reached the shuttle bay at a walk so fast, it was almost a run. Had he been organic, his breath would have been short and his heart pounding. He had been absurdly delayed by Crewman Telfer, who needed to be reassured for the third time that the Phage wasn't contagious to humans. He'd almost missed the shuttle launch. But here it was, surprisingly dainty for such a long-distance craft, shining like silver against the concrete floor. And there she was, the green and purple skin grafts on her face more livid than ever in the fluorescent light, her brittle brown hair tied back, a white teddy bear tucked in the crook of her arm. Waiting for him.

"Denara - "

"Shmullus." She smiled, and it made nonsense of her ugliness. "I knew you'd come."

He hugged her gently, resisting the impulse to crush her against him, knowing exactly how fragile her bones were. The teddy made it awkward, and they both laughed, the breathless little laughs of people trying not to cry.

"You're taking that?"

"Of course," she said. "You gave it to me."

"Ah. Well. I'm glad."

"You know … " Her brown eyes sparkled as she stroked the fluffy toy. "You never told me what kind of animal this is."

"Oh. It's a Terran predator called a bear. They're actually quite fearsome. But don't ask me why people make toys out of such a creature, unless it's some ancient superstition about guarding a sleeping child from demons … " He ducked his head and shut up, embarrassed to be rambling at a moment like this.

"Then I suppose I'll need it," said Denara softly.

Her eyes darkened, probably remembering the living nightmare she had left and would soon return to. _I can't help them_, he remembered her saying, in holographic form, gesturing bitterly to her own dying body. _All I can do is prolong their suffering, just like you want to do to me now! _

_Have I done right? _he asked himself for one heart-piercing moment. _Did I condemn her to a slow death and a life of hopelessness, instead of helping her escape as she asked me to? _

But his Hippocratic Oath, embedded in every photon and anchored by every act of healing he had ever performed in his one and a half years, rose up at once to silence that thought. _You don't know that for certain. The Phage may be cured at any time - tomorrow, for all we know – and it won't happen any faster for the loss of gifted, compassionate physicians like Denara. There is always hope._

Besides, he simply could not kill the woman he loved.

"I – I brought this." He fumbled in his pocket for the data strip he'd put together. "They're holoimages I took of us – on Mars, at Sandrine's, at the Paxau Resort … I know that memory in organic life forms can be wildly inaccurate, and well … I wanted you to remember."

She shook her head with fond exasperation as she took the little green data strip. "Good thing you're a doctor, not a diplomat, my love. Thank you."

"I, of course, possess a photographic memory." He could not cry, but his voice could and did become unsteady in moments like this. "Every moment we spent together is saved in my memory buffer in perfect clarity. I couldn't forget you if I tried."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

She swallowed hard. "Even … " She pointed to her own face with a shaky hand. "Even this?"

So that was the trouble. He caught her hand and pressed it to his own cheek, feeling the roughness of the scar tissue, the hard lines were her skin had been sewn together. "Denara," he murmured. "My Denara. Especially this."

She pulled away, blinking rapidly to keep away tears. "But … why? When it was you who set me free from this disease for the only time in my life. Eight days with no pain, no exhaustion, no one shrinking away from me … it was like a miracle, and I love you for it. I wanted you to remember the woman you made, not … not the monster I am now."

She still didn't understand. It hurt him, in a way he hadn't known anything could hurt. He'd thought having his declaration of love turned down was bad enough, but this? _When the other person feels the same way, it's the most wonderful thing in life, _Kes had told him. How could the most wonderful thing in life include such a gulf of misunderstanding?

"For the last time, Denara, you're not a monster to me! You never were. When I see you like this," he cupped her patchwork face in both hands, "I see a woman who has gone through unspeakable suffering and only come out stronger. A woman who has sacrificed time, strength, health and happiness to her duty as a physician, never closed her eyes to the atrocities of the organ raids and yet never lost her compassion for either side. I heard you tell Lieutenant Torres that you would only take the brain tissue donation if she was willing to give it, even with your life at stake."

He looked into her eyes, her sweet, sad eyes the color of burnished wood in the candlelight at Sandrine's. Tears streamed from them to land on her dress and his jacket.

"I see the woman I love," he said. "And she is always, always beautiful to me."

She sobbed and wiped her eyes, smiling at the same time with the radiance of a sun. "Oh, Shmullus, I – I take that back. You being undiplomatic. You do have a - a wonderful way with words."

"And do you believe me?"

"How could I not?"

She covered his hands with hers and lifted them gently away from her face, then stepped back. She smoothed her dress and tugged her ponytail straight; that one stubborn strand was still falling out of it, even now that her hair was so thin.

"Oh dear," she said ruefully. "Your bridge crew will be waiting. They won't open the shuttle bay doors until I give the signal."

"Then I suppose we shouldn't keep them waiting. Lieutenant Paris in particular."

"Yes. As I understand it, our first date was his idea. Thank him for me, won't you?"

She picked up the teddy bear, which had fallen to the floor at some point in their encounter, and brushed nonexistent dust off its white fur.

"I already have."

"Tell Kes she's been an excellent nurse. And a great friend. You should be proud."

"I am. I will. And you – take care of yourself, won't you? Make sure to get at least six hours of sleep, drink plenty of fluids - "

"Goodness!" She laughed at him warmly, for what he would later realize was the last time. "I'm a doctor too, you know."

"Those are the worst patients. Everybody knows that."

They were speaking rapidly, too-bright smiles on their faces, feeling as if every second was sand running through their fingers. This delay wouldn't improve Paris' temper any. That thought must have been written all over his face, because Denara darted forward, kissed him on the lips, and whirled around towards her shuttle as fast as she could go.

As its door slid up, she looked back one more time and waved – trying to look cheerful, like Kes at the end of a shift, and not quite succeeding.

By the time it occurred to him to wave back, the door was already whirring downward.

She must have used her own comm system to signal, but to him, it seemed like no time at all. A fierce wind swept through the room as the bay depressurized and the doors unfolded. Not needing to breathe, the Doctor stayed rooted to the spot as the Vidiian craft took off. Standing among the row of Starfleet shuttles, all uniformly boxy, gray and white, he felt no different from the rest of the machinery around him. They were built for a specific function, and stood idle when not needed. Just like him. He had performed the surgery, and now his patient was leaving. That was that.

Untl his hands found his pockets, where he had carried the data strip. He'd made a copy for himself. He remembered.

Machines didn't dance in French restaurants, or kiss under the stars. Machines didn't feel like this.

_Remember me like this,_ he wished he had told her. _Remember me blurting out my confession too soon, showering you with too many presents, holding you in Mr. Paris' ridiculous Chevy and fighting with you about your death. Remember me at my worst and at my best. Remember me alive._

But he knew, without asking, that she would do that anyway. Just as he would.


End file.
